sounds like a bucket of dirt
by Flashing The Floods
Summary: Because when there wasn't gross cereal or crappy television or anything of the like, there was just Castiel and Kentin was pretty okay with that. Slash. Written for Paradoxical Weather Girl. Piece of crap, awful attempt at fluff. Crap, crap, crap, everything is crap. Sequel to stale soap bubble, kinda. Stands alone.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Written for Paradoxical Weather Girl. I'm so sorry it's just another disjointed piece of worthless crap, Doxy, and I'm sorry it took me a million eons. But if you want, you can ask me for something else to compensate. Especially since this is fluff and we all know that I'm even more horrible at fluff than I am everything else...Though I'm still horrible at everything else.**

**Rating is for pervyness! Beware of pervyness! And slight underage drinking and references to recreational drug use...Not much e_e' **

**And on an irrelevant note, I'm on hiatus at the moment and whatnot 'cause I'm busy as fuck. To those that are awaiting their requests, Imma crank those out soon enough here (sorry it's taking so damn long), but then Imma disappear for awhile.**

* * *

It's nearly four in the morning and Kentin should be asleep, definitely. He feels like sleeping. His limbs are as heavy as elephants and his coherency is floating away on clouds more fuzzy than they are fluffy. Yeah, he should be sleeping. But instead he's poking into Castiel's cabinet, making a face at the boxes on the shelves.

"Oat Loops? Bran Flakes? Crunch Puffs? Do you have any cereal that isn't off-brand?"

"What? Off-brand not good enough for you? I wouldn't have pegged you as such a priss, Ken." Castiel unceremoniously bumps him out of the way and grabs the box of Oat Loops.

"I'm not a priss," Kentin protests with a swallowed yawn. "But off-brand cereal is just of those things you don't buy."

"Tastes the same as the brand stuff." Castiel shrugs and fixed himself a bowl, plopping down at the table.

Kentin rolls his eyes and begrudgingly takes the box of Crunch Puffs. He doesn't bother with the milk and the utensils, he just opens it up and steals a handful. He pops in it in his mouth and chews it over. It takes a massive effort not to spit it out, the stuff is like woodchips and cardboard.

"It's stale!"

"Put some sugar on it." Castiel casually indicates some packets by the coffee maker with his spoon.

"You need to go shopping," Kentin declares and returns the box of cereal. He props his palms on the edge of the counter and hefts himself up, emerald gaze level on Castiel.

The redhead gives another shrug and keeps spooning up his subpar breakfast-that-isn't-breakfast. "You don't have to eat it. Go back to your own house and eat your name-brand not stale cereal. Your parents probably miss you anyway."

Kentin shakes his head and lets go of another yawn. That hazy feeling is blanketing over, leaving the kitchen and the conversation almost precisely surreal when they are just about the most mundane things in the world.

"They don't mind that I'm out late. They're just happy I have friends."

"So you and I are _friends_?" Castiel smirks at him over the bowl, brow crooked in faux skepticism.

"Yeah. We're friends." A fleeting smirk touches his own features as he lays his head back against the cupboard and closes his eyes.

"Just what kind of friends are we then?"

"The bad kind, I think," Kentin mumbles without opening his eyes. Who knew the counter could be so comfortable?

"No such thing," Castiel breathes teasingly. Kentin doesn't hear it. He's already been abducted by the Sandman.

He wakes up to mild pressure on his mouth, the unpleasantly pleasant taste of sugared stale cardboard transferred via another. He instinctively kisses back, subdued, sleepy.

"C'mon," Castiel murmurs with a ginger nip to the corner of his lips. "Get up, go to bed. I'm not carrying you."

Kentin mutters some muddled assent and climbs off the counter, plodding to Castiel's bedroom. He's pretty much asleep before he even hits the sheets, but not so asleep that he can't feel the arm wrapping around his waist.

რ

Nights and nights bordering on mornings spent at Castiel's could be surprisingly domestic. Kentin appreciates them in a strange way he doesn't really think about too much. The kind of way you appreciate walking outside after the rainstorm has passed and taking a breath of the fresh hint it's left in the air. It's funny, isn't it? How it always leaves the taste of cleanliness in the atmosphere, even in places consumed by smog and pollution.

Shame it's so ephemeral.

One night Kentin winds up on the couch before Demon can claim it for the night. The television's been left on, and Kentin doesn't know where the remote is. He wishes he did because what's on is the ridiculous cartoon version of Puff the Magic Dragon.

Castiel saunters in from the hall and lazily throws himself across the cushions, parking his head right in Kentin's lap.

"Where's your remote?"

"Dunno," Castiel replied, eyes blearily shifting to the screen. "I lost it."

"It's your house, go find it." Kentin gives him a motivating poke in the cheek.

"In the morning." Castiel rolls over, curling in slightly. The tip of his nose brushes right below Kentin's navel and stirs up these balmy bubbles beneath the skin.

"I don't want to watch this..." Kentin sighs in defeat. He absently pets Castiel as he watches anyway, fingers tracing the dips in his physique. He tangles one into the strap of fabric that can't be called a sleeve because the shirt is what they call a sleeveless.

Damn it. Watching this asinine animation is like dropping acid in a daycare center. He wishes he had that remote. "This movie makes no sense. No one would ever give up being a pirate to be a freaking baker."

"I'mma take ya to Hannalee...S'you hate it so much," Castiel mutters, voice cloudy with sleep.

He's out not even a second later. Kentin is kind of annoyed because that means he's trapped here with terrible entertainment, but it's hard to be annoyed when Castiel looks so peaceful. Almost cute. Okay, so really cute. Kentin carefully reaches down to the end of the couch and pulls the blanket up to his shoulders.

რ

The next time is the longest Kentin's stayed up in awhile. It's seven in the morning. Seven. And he hasn't slept since he got up at eight the previous morning. This might even be the latest he's _ever_ stayed up...Though there were those nights back in military school, the first few weeks when he was afraid to sleep. He really pushed it then, he might've pushed it longer than this.

"Every coffee commercial has a hot Italian chick," Castiel says, half-lidded gaze on the screen of this informercial they're watching. They have the remote this time, but nothing else is on.

"I know, right?" Though this informercial isn't marketing coffee — it's marketing a coffee maker — the same concept is applying. There's this gorgeous Italian babe making coffee. She's got these eyes as dark as the expresso and this kinky waterfall noir-taupe hair swaying over the graceful slopes of her olive shoulders. She's wearing this mini black dress that fits snug without sleeves and compliments her from the swell of her breasts to the curves of her hips.

"I'd actually buy that coffee maker if it came with her."

Kentin scoffs. "She'd leave you for me."

Castiel gives him this cocky look, like he's so generous to humor him. "And what's so special about you?"

"You tell me," Kentin breathes. He'd probably regret it if extensive lack of sleep didn't have him feeling like he was flying a golden helicopter above the world. It was only a matter of time before he crashed, after all.

Castiel peels himself off the couch and saunters over to the armchair Kentin's occupying. He leans over and nuzzles the side of Kentin's face, grinning lips skimming his cheek before he bites at his earlobe.

Kentin shivers.

რ

It's quiet. _Castiel's_ quiet and that makes Kentin uneasy. He hopes it's not going to be like this all night. He really hopes it's not something he did. He tries to break the ice.

"What's in your fridge?"

"Leftover sushi." Castiel gives a one-shouldered shrug.

Kentin is pretty sure he did something wrong. He doesn't know what he did, but he must've done something because this is weird. There's this off-beat buzz in the air and Castiel's either zombified or stoned on something bad. And he's pretty sure it's not the latter because Kentin's only seen him do that at parties (excluding that one time where Marcese was sharing her haze in the hallway, but that was before her thing with Debrah butchered their friendly ties).

"Okay...What's up?" Kentin trains his stare on Castiel.

Castiel just shakes his head.

"Whatever I did, I didn't mean it. But please don't just—"

"It's not you, Ken. I'm just having an off day, alright? Don't take it so personally." Castiel drops his head back against the couch.

Now that Kentin knows it's not something he did, he notices. Castiel's really pale. Like, a sun-bleached bones kind of complexion. "Hey, are you okay?"

"You're really full of questions tonight." His eyes slide closed.

Kentin gets up and walks over. Upon closer inspection, Castiel is sweating and shaking nearly imperceptibly with every other exhale. "Feeling sick?"

"Not as bad as earlier."

So Kentin takes him by the wrist and tugs him off to the bedroom. He nudges Castiel under the comforter and gently curls around him. He presses a brief kiss to the sticky nape of his neck and tastes salt. With an even sigh, Castiel rolls over and nestles into Kentin, arm draped over his side. It's too hot between them, sweaty and sweltering and gross.

But that doesn't really matter. At some point rain barrages the roof and lightning paints the room in brilliant white as it flashes outside the window. Demon streaks into the room and hops onto the bed at the first roar of thunder. He plows between Kentin and Castiel, burying his snout under the pillow.

"What the heck!?"

"He doesn't like storms," Castiel clarifies, sympathetically stroking the canine's neck.

Kentin breathes a laugh. "He's really not as tough as he looks."

As if insulted, Demon growls.

რ

It's just a little after midnight and this bathtub is way too small. Kentin's sitting on Castiel's ankles with his own scissored on either side of Castiel's hips. The water's nice, steaming and accented with some cucumber melon bath oil. That's what it's called anyway, but Kentin has never seen a cucumber melon. He's pretty sure there's no such thing. It's pretty girly, either way.

He says so.

Castiel glares murder, lip curled like a territorial werewolf. "Fruit. Is. Unisex."

Kentin knows better than to push the issue.

"This is cute." He pokes the black bill of a red devil-horned rubber ducky that bobs on the water's surface.

"A cousin got it for me from some novelty shop." A fond grin quivers over Castiel's mouth as he flicks the ducky back toward Kentin.

It turns into an absent game, both of them pushing it back and fourth. Kentin's not sure how they got here to tell the truth. But he doesn't mind it. The hot water is loosening his muscles and warming him up. The oil kisses his skin and the steam clears his head. It's soothing even if there isn't enough room.

"I'm not cutting off your circulation, am I?"

"Nope," Castiel sighs as he reclines back against the wall of the tub, arms resting over the sides.

"Do you do this with everyone?" Kentin finds himself asking.

"Nah. Do you?"

"Well no..."

"You wanna see a movie or something tomorrow?" Castiel must be asking him, but it looks like he's asking the ceiling.

"You're asking me out?" Kentin chuckles softly. It's just a little weird. Here they are sharing a bathtub, and not once have either of them asked the other out. But hey, maybe that isn't really weird at all. Maybe it just feels like it is.

"You heard the question. You're not deaf." An impatient grunt.

"If there's something good playing, then sure."

რ

You can't see stars boundlessly in the city. It's because of all the lights. But a few are twinkling. Three or four sparse ones make their presence known in the navy dome overhead. The gust of wind is biting cold, but that just makes Castiel's fingers seem that much hotter as they skate down past the waistband of his pants. Kentin gasps aloud but Castiel smothers the noise out with his mouth.

His lips are as firm as his grip and his teeth leave stinging marks that pulse with jets of battery acid. Kentin is thinking they should go inside, go inside right now, but then it's not like there's anyone out this late to see.

Just when Kentin's sure he's going to melt into a pile of groaning hormones, Castiel's grip disappears in time with the scraping of teeth along his neck. Then Castiel gets down on his knees and presses blunt fingernails to his hips, a grin as wicked as the devil's on his lips.

"What are you doing?" Kentin gets out, syllables jumbled and straining.

"This." The pressure of nails disappear and Kentin's unprepared for the blast of air as his pants fall around his ankles.

By the time they go inside, Kentin's hasn't just seen stars, he's seen a supernova.

რ

"What the hell happened to you?" Castiel demands, charcoal eyes flaring angrily and jaw clenching.

"You should see the other guys," Ken chuckles tiredly and sags against the doorframe. He can feel bruises pulsing along his jaw and obtuse stabs between his ribs. His lower lip is busted in one corner and throbs beneath crusted blood every few minutes to remind him, some fresh leaking out when he smiles.

Castiel makes this sound in between a growl and a click of the tongue and strides over, pulling Kentin from the doorframe with chary fingers. "What. Happened."

"A couple of jerks at the bus stop were spitting slurs at Alexy and pushing him around." It still pisses him off remembering the eager, practically bloodthirsty looks on their stupid faces and a such a wary, startled one on Alexy's.

Castiel tips up Kentin's chin and tilts his head to get a better look at the purpling bruises, a low noise rumbling in the back of his throat. "He okay?"

"He's fine. So am I, so you can stop checking me out."

Castiel drops his chin and crookedly raising a brow. "You think I'm checking you out?"

"Yeah— Not like that! Whatever you're doing then..." Kentin averts his gaze and sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck.

A snort of amusement. And then a kind of ginger look, a melted eye. "Do you want to cook marshmallows?"

"What?"

"I bought a bag of marshmallows. Do you wanna cook them?"

"Sure." Something sweet sounds bizarrely delicious right now.

So they shuffle to the kitchen. Kentin spots the bag of marshmallows among other oddities, but popping open the bag reopens his battered knuckles and speckles of ruby splash quietly on plastic. Castiel mutters something about tainting the food before he gets a clean dishtowel. Kentin knows better than to swat him away, just stands where he is all moronic like and tries not to wonder how the ornery redhead can be so incredibly gentle when he's so offhandedly dabbing at the cuts.

He wonders anyway. It's pretty weird. Not a bad kind of weird, just a regular weird kind of weird. It gets weirder when Castiel tenderly slaps a couple of bandaids on.

Kentin's expression must say as much, because he bristles and steps back after catching it.

"What? I'm protecting the marshmallows. I paid for 'em, can't let you bleed on 'em."

"If you say so."

So they impale marshmallows on forks and cook them over the stove. Castiel shoves them right into the flames and doesn't eat them until they're black. Kentin lets them hover over until they're a coffee-brown.

They swap flavors with their spit.

რ

"We should break up," Kentin gets out anxiously. It's not even nine yet, it's barely dark so maybe he should've waited awhile but he didn't and he really hopes Castiel doesn't kill him for this. He also hopes he doesn't hurt his feelings...Well, if he has feelings. Kentin sort of thinks he does, but he could be wrong about that.

Castiel stares at him like he just put ice cream in the microwave. "What?"

"It's not that I don't like you!" He raises his hands defensively and winces at how hackneyed that sounds. "I do! But I...I still have feelings for Lynn and I just don't think that we...Um...Why are you smiling like that...?"

"You can't break up with me, idiot. We're not together."

Kentin feels like a balloon that just kissed a cactus. "We're not?"

"Nope. You said so yourself, remember? We're _friends_. The bad kind." Castiel smirks and leans against the doorframe, arms folded.

Kentin doesn't even have a response. He hasn't been this embarrassed in awhile and he vehemently wishes he could turn invisible or just teleport away, maybe find a bus to crawl under.

"If you have time to just stand there with your mouth open, I take it you have time to come with me." Castiel shuffles over the threshold and pulls the door shut behind him.

_Come with you where? _is what Kentin wonders but it comes out as, "Where are we going?"

"Pet store. Demon needs food." Castiel brushes past him and jogs down the porch steps, not even tossing a glance back. He automatically expects Kentin to follow.

Kentin follows. Yeah, they're friends. And the fact that he's presumed to follow after like the loyal dog they're fetching food for just proves that they're the bad kind. Maybe he should mind it more than he does.

რ

The clock says it's three-thirty, but it's really four-thirty. It's an hour slow.

"We should go on a road trip," Castiel suggests out of nowhere, glassy eyes glinting with the dim living room light.

Kentin leans forward and fishes the beer bottle out of his hands, taking another sip. It's warm now and it's really nasty when it's warm, but he's already buzzed so he doesn't care as much as he could. "Road trip to where?"

"I dunno, but we should take one." Castiel goes to get another swig and then realizes he's not holding it anymore. He shrugs it off with a little lift of the shoulders and then looks back to Kentin.

"We can't just pack up and leave," Kentin breathes thickly. "We've got school...And people...Besides, you have to know where you're going if you want to go on a road trip."

"No you don't." Castiel weasels the bottle out of Kentin's grasp and finishes it off. "The point of a road trip is the trip, not where you're going. That's one thing that I always kinda wanted to get out of the band thing, you know? Just going anywhere and everywhere. Passing places, stopping only if you feel like."

Kentin stretches out and rests his elbows on the cushions. The couch isn't that much bigger than the bathtub. "I don't really see the point...But I wouldn't mind going with you, I guess. If we weren't gone for too long."

"Nah, Ken. If we go, we're gonna be gone awhile. There's too many places to see."

Kentin scrunches his face up. "What? Didn't you just say that the places weren't the point?"

Castiel snickers and looks a little like he's going to fall over the arm of the couch. "Didn't you just say you didn't see the point?"

Now Kentin's just really confused. It's too late for this and he's too lit for this. He shakes his head and lays back, head resting on the opposite arm of the couch. Castiel absently pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and tosses it over him, and it's only then that Kentin recalls he's naked.

რ

Kentin silently justifies his (mostly former, slightly current) fear of Castiel when the guy takes a brick to the head and remains standing. It happens at this dome where some 'Battle of the Bands' event is going on. It was a spur of the moment deal that he even went; Castiel was filling in for some friend of Lysander's friend's cousin's acquaintance that got his number from somewhere and Kentin just tagged along because he happened to be there when the redhead got the memo.

Some dude from some other band gets into it for Castiel for whatever stupid reason (Kentin doesn't know what, he's buying some cookies from the vending machine while this is happening). Castiel has pretty much turned the guy to lunchmeat by the time a bewildered Kentin gets back. Security breaks them up before Kentin can even ask. They get kicked out for fighting and on the way back to the parking lot, the dude just up and throws a brick.

It hits dead on, the long side of it cracking Castiel above the temple, above the eye. It strikes so fast, Kentin doesn't realize what happened until the asshole's peeling out of the parking lot with his friends and Castiel lets go of a sharp hiss between the teeth. Kentin glances over and already blood is streaming down.

"Holy shit!"

"Don't freak out on me," Castiel mutters, voice taut. "It's not bad."

"You don't know that!" It sure _looks_ bad, the stream of blood is now a bay, draping over half his face and dripping down his chin.

"I'm pissed off, but it doesn't really hurt." Castiel touches the gash and winces despite the claim. "You got a towel, or something?"

"Why would I have a towel?" Kentin snaps shrilly. He does have an over shirt though, so he uses that to staunch the bleeding. It's awkward to walk like that all the way to the bus stop and Castiel complains and growls at him to watch the guitar. The streetlight over the bus stop provides a better picture of what he's working with and it's not too pretty. But it _has_ stopped bleeding, at least.

"You should probably go to the emergency room..."

"No."

"But—"

"No."

"...Are you nauseous at all?"

"Nope."

"Dizzy?"

"We're not playing twenty questions, Ken."

"What were you even fighting over!?"

"I'm not sure, the guy was wasted and picking fights with everybody." Castiel sighs tiredly. "I should've known not to go to this stupid thing anyway, it's way out of the way and I barely knew those people."

Kentin stops drilling him. Instead he pats him on the back and spares a terse smile. "I don't know many people who can take a brick to the head and keep standing...Not that I couldn't, because I totally could, but I mean other people. Anyway, it's a compliment."

"Bullshit you could," Castiel scoffs.

"I could," Kentin asserts. "I've been through even worse."

"Yeah, right." Castiel rolls his eyes and bumps him in the shoulder.

It goes on like this until the bus arrives.

რ

"So you're still into Lynn?" Castiel inquires casually as he throws the frisbee for Demon. Kentin watches from the back porch, legs hooked over the ledge of concrete and slice of buttered toast in his hand.

"I thought only girls talked about that kind of thing," Kentin replies, nibbling at the toast.

Castiel grunts, unamused, and throws the frisbee again when Demon brings it back. "What do you like about her so much?"

The night is cool. Kentin shivers quietly as its chilly fingers stroke his skin.

"Mostly everything," he answers.

"Mostly," Castiel mimics. Demon lopes back with the frisbee in his mouth, slobber flying, and Castiel throws it for him once more.

"I wish she'd see me," Kentin murmurs. "Like really see me, the way I see her. She doesn't." He finishes off the toast, blush scalding against the nip in the air.

"I know you haven't asked her out. Have you talked to her?" Castiel pats the panting Demon on the head and gives the frisbee a break for now, casting a glance back to Kentin.

"About this? N-No...Why are we talking about this, anyway?" Kentin crosses his arms and sullenly looks at a crack in the porch step. "You don't care about my love life."

A shrug. "I feel sorry for you. There's something that's holding you back from talking to her, right? Maybe I can help. Unlike you, I actually have experience with girls."

"I have experience with girls!" Kentin exclaims. There is something holding him back, but he doesn't know what that something is. Either way, he doesn't want to talk about it.

"You call kissing Amber experience with girls?" Castiel skeptically rose a brow.

"I wasn't talking about that!"

Castiel snickers and saunters over, hopping up and sitting next to Kentin. "Alright. What experience were you talking about then?"

"None of your business," Kentin huffs, looking away as his face goes up in embarrassed flames.

Castiel throws an arm over his shoulder and grins. "C'mon. We're friends, remember? Friends tell each other these kinds of things."

Kentin kisses him on the mouth to get him to shut up. It's just about the only thing that works. It should probably feel odd to do so, given the discussion. But it really doesn't, not in the least.

რ

He should probably be home. Scratch that, he should definitely be home. His entire body feels like it's been ground into a dirt road by a fifty-wheeled steamroller. His throat's throbbing like it's studded with thorns and if he can go ten full minutes without coughing, it's a miracle. It's eleven at night and he's sick as a dog. Kentin should be home, in bed, with any luck asleep, and instead he's ringing Castiel's doorbell.

He's not particularly sure why.

Castiel answers in concurrence with a coughing fit that hits him so hard, he's sure he's going to hack up a lung.

"You okay?" Castiel puts a hand on his back.

Kentin lifts his head as it abates. "Yeah."

"Uh-huh. You sound like shit."

"Kinda sick," he mumbles.

"So you come over to spread your germs?" Castiel takes him by the shoulders and steers him inside.

"You'd miss me if I didn't." Kentin ducks his head and pushes his mouth to his elbow to muffle another few coughs.

Castiel guides Kentin to the couch and swishes his bangs aside. He presses the back of his hand to his forehead, giving a critical hum. He pulls away and heads off down the hallway, and Kentin's coughing again before he can ask.

"Take off your shirt," Castiel instructs when he comes back, a small blue container in hand.

"Not now," Kentin sighs hoarsely. "I'm really not feeling up to it. Besides, you don't want my germs..."

"Not what I mean, moron." Castiel lightly bops him on the head and puts the container down. He pulls Kentin's shirt off himself and sits on the edge of the cushions, unscrewing the container's lid. He scoops some lemon-tinted gel out and slathers it onto Kentin's chest. The scent of menthol tickles his nose, its cool giving a pleasing tingling sensation as it soothes past the skin.

"That feels good," Kentin exhales.

"That's the point." Castiel continues rubbing the gel in, his fingers fanned, gingerly massaging. "I've got some of that throat spray stuff too. Doesn't taste so great, but it works."

"Thanks..."

"No problem. Just don't breathe on me."

რ

Kentin is not a big fan of horror movies. The gratuitous amount of gore makes his stomach twist squeamishly and those jump-out scares freak him out. He knows that's the point, but he isn't the kind of person who likes to get scared. Nonetheless, here is is, squirming on the couch and digging his fingers into the arm until his knuckles are white while this oblivious soul on the screen is being stalked by a fiend in a hockey mask.

"You want some popcorn?"

Kentin leaps at the sound of Castiel's voice and an undignified yelp flies from his startled lips. "Sure, great, popcorn sounds great," he prattles before Castiel can comment. "You know what? I'll go make it. You can just tell me what I missed."_ Or not, _he adds mentally, because he knows the film is approaching one of those carnage-tastic scenes and he does not want to know anything about that, thank you very much.

He hops up from the cushions and skitters to the kitchen, cringing from the scream that pitches from the television behind him. His pace quickens with his pulse as he opens the pantry door and paws around miscellaneous cans and boxes to find popcorn. It's the stovetop kind, kernels collected under an aluminum cover. He likes this kind better than the microwave stuff, and it's probably one of the few things he and Castiel have in common.

Kentin puts in on and listens to the soft crackling as it cooks. Despite having no desire to see what's on the screen, that irresistible human curiosity prompts him to peek around the wall and into the living room. He regrets it very immediately, when Hockey Mask springs right out of a closet and lops off Slasher Victim Number Two's head. Blood explodes out of the stump and Kentin rapidly returns his attention to the popcorn.

The foil covering is now a balloon on the pan, filled with popped kernels. Kentin takes it off the stove and puts it all in a bowl, inhaling the aroma of salt and butter. It'd be more appetizing if he wasn't greeted with the images of crimson splatter and severed fingers. He shudders and leans over to put the bowl on the coffee table, when he's attacked from behind.

Twin weights thrust his shoulders and the hot, heavy breath of his assailant sears his ear. A frightened squawk escapes his throat as he leaps about a meter in the air, the bowl bouncing out of his grasp and popcorn spilling everywhere.

Demon woofs happily and hops off Kentin's back, prancing around the table. He bends his head and starts lapping the popcorn up from the floor.

Kentin sags back into the couch, feeling like a total idiot as he watches Demon indulge.

"Scaredy cat, much?" Castiel cackles like a maniac as he punches him in the shoulder.

"S-Shut up!" Kentin shoves him.

But as the movie progresses, he finds himself pressing closer and closer to Castiel until he's practically hiding behind him.

რ

It starts snowing around six. By the time he reaches Castiel's door, there's a shin-deep frosty blanket. When Castiel answers said door, he peers outside and shuffles out instead of letting Kentin in.

"Damn. It's coming down pretty hard now."

"Shouldn't you have a coat on?"

Castiel rolls his eyes and brushes past without a response, heading to the garage.

"What are you doing?" Kentin sighs in exasperation, more for his own sake really. It's freezing out here, he wants inside.

"Shoveling my driveway." The garage door groans loudly in protest as Castiel lifts it open. "I've got two shovels, get over here and help."

"For someone who doesn't like being bossed around, you sure are hypocritical." But even as Kentin's complaining, he's already striding over. Personally he thinks it'd be better to wait until it actually stops snowing. He also thinks that it's ridiculous to shovel snow at ten o' clock at night anyway, and Castiel should be wearing a coat, damn it.

When the driveway is about a quarter done, Kentin scoops up a generous pile and does something he probably shouldn't, but somehow can't resist. Castiel is ahead of him, back to him and unaware. And all of a sudden, before Kentin can stop himself, he flings the snow.

It sails through the air and splatters against Castiel's back. Castiel jumps, a sputtering gasp jerked out of him. He wheels around with furious fluidity and whips his own collection of snow at Kentin.

It hits him right in the face, wet and icy, up his nose and in his mouth. He coughs and shakes himself, flurries flying. This means war. He shovels up another stack of snow and launches, but this time Castiel is prepared and deflects it, swinging his shovel like a bat. Kentin doesn't give in, he spoons another pile and thrusts it toward Castiel, full force.

Castiel attempts evasion, but the snow catches his torso, exploding into slivery flakes. He retaliates with a swift flip and toss of the shovel that Kentin isn't swift enough to dodge either. They go back and fourth, the goal of clearing the driveway long forgotten in favor of the battle. It ends in a draw, Castiel slinging the last bale of snow before he slips on some ice.

Kentin trots over, chuckling breathlessly as he holds out a hand. Castiel takes it, but before Kentin can help him up, he pulls him down. Kentin lets out a gasp, the snow soaking into the knees of his jeans. He should've expected this.

"Hi," he mutters awkwardly.

"Well, hi." A grin spreads across Castiel's features. He's flushed and soaked, glittery snowflakes collecting in his hair and melting on his skin.

Kentin kisses him without really meaning to. It's like pressing his mouth to marble. Castiel kisses back slowly; caresses Kentin's lips with his tongue and knots frigid fingers in his hair.

"Do you wanna...not be friends?" he asks tentatively.

Surprise flickers briefly over Castiel's face and morphs into something like amusement. "You're a dork."

"Hey! That's not an answer— Oh forget it." Kentin should've known better. He starts to get up, wanting to save face, no matter how hot its burning. Castiel rapidly pulls him down again. He doesn't topple as gracefully this time, he flounders, chin hitting the redhead's chest.

"No, I don't want to be your friend." The way the words roll off Castiel's tongue has this effervescent effect on Kentin's insides.

They kiss again and that damn driveway stays uncleared for the rest of the night.

რ

Nothing really changes. They hold hands more than they used to. They make out between classes and don't care who sees. But other than that, everything is the same. Kentin still spends weekend nights doing everything but sleeping with Castiel and his shitty off-brand cereal and his monster mutt of a dog.

This idiosyncratic routine dosen't seem appealing, but in truth he wouldn't trade it for anything.


	2. this does NOT countmy dumb humor bonus

**Author's Note: Doxy asked for fluff, so this really doesn't count but I just had to include it. The last time I did a fic with these two, her review was: _'I don't know why but I thought one of them was gonna be dead by the end of the fic. I'm glad that's not the case xD'_**

**So I had to do this. I'm sorry, dude, but like I said, it doesn't really count. Think of this as an unrelated craptastic bonus, a crappy little omake, just my sense of humor acting up again. **

* * *

Kentin lets himself in. He's stopped knocking awhile ago. Tonight he realizes something is off the very instant he steps over the threshold. The house is eerily silent. In place of a genuine ambiance, there is a nothingness lacuna. Demon isn't coming over to greet him. Castiel isn't anywhere to be seen. Everything is wrong and unease palls over Kentin heavily.

"Hello?" he calls out. His reedy voice bounces off the unnatural quiet and a shiver rakes his spine.

He knows he should leave. He wants to leave just to escape this disturbing aura of wrongness. Disobeying ever fiber of his body, Kentin stays and pads through the house. He just can't shake the feeling that something isn't right, that something is immensely amiss. It's an instinctual knowledge in his gut, twitching there wordlessly, making him feel ill.

Or so he thinks.

Kentin doesn't realize what feeling ill is really like until he finds Demon. Walking into the kitchen, he stumbles (and nearly falls) right over the dog, a muzzy mound of black sprawled on his side. Kentin knows he's dead before he even flicks the light on and sees the gaunt, pink-grey tongue lolling out his mouth. Something behind Kentin's eyes clicks as the urge to vomit crawls up his throat.

Shock, in all its gelid enormity, becomes powerful enough to overcome the disgust when Kentin sees that there is another dead thing just a few squares of linoleum away.

Castiel. Facedown, inanimate.

There's no need to check for pulses. Kentin knows what he is looking at is an empty husk, a pile of meat and bone. Two piles of meat and bones, albeit of significantly different structures. He knows this as much as he knows he's alive, standing here to behold the gruesome find.

An indeterminable stretch of time passes before Kentin calls the cops, his fingers shaking as they punch the numbers. His heart is a drum in a tightening slipknot of a chest, but his voice is terrifyingly steady when he reports that yeah, he just found his boyfriend and his boyfriend's dog dead on the floor. Uh-huh, just there. No blood. Nothing's knocked over. No signs of a struggle.

It still has to be the shock keeping him so scarily stable because he should be screaming. Kentin has always been such a wimp, even after military school, much to his own chagrin. He yelps aloud during slasher movies and jumps whenever something creaks behind him. Yet here he is, in the middle of a real horror story and his voice is the sound of a closing door; distinct, controlled, dependable.

He feels distant from all this somehow. Like the hand that's putting the phone back in his pocket isn't really his own. Like he's not really in Castiel's kitchen, but vicariously sightseeing through someone with a twisted imagination. Like this isn't real, hopefully. Even the hope is dim, as though he really doesn't care that much. Because there's no harm to be found in something that isn't real.

But when Kentin meanders a numb step forward and the toe of his shoe touches Castiel's corpse, he doubles over and vomits. The false sense of disassociation shatters as bilious constituents of his stomach splash onto the floor. Questions, most namely _how_ and _when_ and _oh god_, **_why_** race through his head. These accumulate to another puddle of puke on the linoleum.

A tidal wave of dizziness washes over Kentin as he straightens himself. The appalling scene before him blurs and goes black at the edges. His gut does another wretched flip-flop and for a second, he absently realizes he's going to vomit again. But then the ball drops; a bigger realization switches on the proverbial lightbulb over his head.

He isn't just getting sick because he's horrified.

He's getting sick because there's _something_ in the air.

It's a fucking gas leak. Carbon monoxide, or radon or some shit, he's no expert.

What killed Castiel and Demon is starting to kill him too. With this flashing in mind like lightning, Kentin sputters and bolts right out of the house. He pelts down the steps and gulps in untainted air desperately, running blind. He races right into the path of the oncoming cop car that was sent out in response to his call, just arriving. The officer has no time to swerve and runs over Kentin, one wheel sundering his legs from his body.

His muscles squelch like rotten fruit, bones crunching like dry cereal. His organs are reduced to pulpy flapjacks, fingers spasming in a jerky gavotte as his eyes roll up. He's dead before the cop can call for a bus.


End file.
